Move over Exxon Valdez

Remember this infamous oil tanker?  Master Joseph Hazelwood drove her into Bligh Reef on March 24, 1989, spilling 10.8 million gallons of oil into Prince William Sound, Alaska. (For the record, he was not at the helm; the third mate was. The captain, some say, was drunk, or sleeping it off). This is, to date, the worst oil spill to ever hit the U.S.

But wait, there's more! A lot more.

BP's oil rig is said to be spewing 5000 gallons of oil a day into the Gulf of Mexico. Some of that oil has already started hitting Louisiana. More is to come. Much more. It's early yet, but this spill might easily become far bigger than the Exxon Valdez.

Oh, and by the way, that spill was tiny compared to others around the world. At least 20 times that much oil was spilt during the first Gulf War.

So what's my point? Let's stop spilling oil! Better, let's stop drilling for oil! In fact, the oil that is not spilt is probably far worse for the planet than the oil that is. Here's the thing: in x years (fill in your own number) there will be no more oil. It's a finite resource. Everyone admits that. So why aren't we directing our huge amount of knowledge and wealth toward coming up with viable alternatives to oil instead of drilling for every last drop, putting the planet at risk more and more every day?

It's not like we can't afford it. BP made $5.6 billion this past quarter. That's B-billion in the last Q-quarter. Not last year -- last quarter!

This is insane.

Burn the homophobes!

I am so sick of this! Another outrageous example of school administrators abusing children. Officials at the Wesson Attendance Center (what's up with that name?) refused to allow an openly gay student to use her picture of choice in the school yearbook because she was wearing a tux, not a dress. Her Mom enlisted the ACLU to petition the school to change their position. They didn't. Worse, when the yearbook was printed officials simply excised all mention of Ceara Sturgis, a 12 year honor student, from the book. It's as if she didn't exist.

I bet these homophobes are also anti-abortion and yet they have aborted this 17-year-old child.

I say, burn them! Seriously, let's make hompohopbia a capital offense and let's bring back the stake. The world can get along nicely with fewer bigots, so let's burn their asses.

Here are two takes on the story, first from the Jackson Free Press and then from the Advocate.

Coming Out, part 1

The constant reader may recall that I had two less than perfect homosexual encounters while in high school. Three years were to pass before my next experience. I was a VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America) in Aurora, IL. A man who worked next door was ten years older, smart, clever and a lot of fun. I was pretty sure he was gay. That's an important statement, for it marked the first time in my life I had that thought. I didn't think my earlier friend, with whom I had those encounters, was gay. We did something queer, but we weren't ourselves queer, right? And, believe it or not, there was a time in America when not every other put-down in public school was faggot-this or queer-that. Not only did I not consciously know a gay person before 1968, I had never even thought much about it.  Yeah, I was naive, but a lot of us were. It was a gentler, less-informed time.

So to this assumedly-gay friend I said "what would you say if I asked you for oral sex?" (I in fact phrased it a bit differently, but let me not scare away my more gentle readers). He said he'd be glad to help if that's what I wanted. So we entered into this totally one-sided sexual relationship that ran parallel to our mutually giving friendship. We hung out, went to movies and restaurants or just talked far more than we "had sex." I was -- obviously -- being selfish, but, in my defense, I just wasn't ready to commit. (Men are so bad at that). He understood and never pushed.

Within a year he moved 60 miles away and it was while visiting him for a weekend that I met the first man after whom I lusted. Michael was younger than my friend, slightly older than I, and a Latin teacher. He was Italian or Greek -- something Mediterranean that gave him a dark and sensual look; I thought he was beautiful and I let him know. He wouldn't touch me because I was too young and confused and so I spent a melodramatic night crying myself to sleep -- alone.

By 1970 I was living in New York City and determined that I would sort out this gay thing once and for all. I mean, if you can't come out in New York, where can you?

Didn't happen. I was there from June through November and had only one, very minor, gay encounter. During the whole time I was still dating women and in fact asked one to marry me. Thank goodness she had the sense to say no.

The next summer I was back in NY, working on Long Island; there I met Matt. Beautiful, sexy, long-haired Matt. Who dated beautiful, sexy, long-haired Sally. At an all-night party Matt and I went for a walk and he opened up, saying "I've never told anyone this, but I've started to have these feelings for men and I want to have sex with a man and I want that man to be YOU." OMG! I was stunned, both with surprise and glee. Here was this totally hot straight man who had just told me he wanted to sleep with me. We went back to the party, which was a moveable feast heading to Boston at daybreak. There we stayed with a friend of mine who, when assigning sleeping arrangements said "Walter, why don't you and Matt take the bedroom on the third floor" -- I'm not making this up; he gave us the only private spare room in his house. You can guess what happened next.

Matt and I had a passionate affair that lasted oh, three weeks maybe. I thought things were going well but he was a cauldron of turmoil inside and eventually screamed at me that he wasn't gay and that he hated me for making him think he might be and that he never wanted to see me again. Jeez!

I took it really hard. It was the end of a very intense summer in New York, I was about to head back to Richmond to pick up the shreds of my academic career, I was in love with my first man -- and it all came crashing down. I drove down 95 listening over and over to Graham Nash singing "When your love has moved away / you must face yourself and you must say / I remember better days" and to Cat Stevens: "Now that I've lost everything to you / You say you want to start something new / And it's breaking my heart you're leaving / Baby, I'm grieving." It was a tortured return home, but at least I had taken a couple of big steps on the coming out journey.

(For anyone who might not know, the Greek letter Lambda above was adopted as a Gay Liberation symbol in the early 70s).

The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.

More than one of my readers has commented that I'm not living up to my blog title of cynic. The truth is that I am both cynical and not cynical. Like every human I have ever known, I am not all this or all that. I am changeable and inconstant. I think we all are.

Various dictionary definitions of the word cynic include the following:

- a person whose outlook is scornfully and often habitually negative

- a person who believes that people are motivated purely by self-interest rather than acting for honorable or unselfish reasons

- a person who questions whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile

Well, that certainly sounds like me. Regarding the first definition, I think America is on a downward spiral toward second world status -- possibly third world status. The Japanese, Koreans and Chinese all seem to work harder, produce more and care more than we do. The poorly named Protestant Work Ethic has been severely eroded in this country. People used to be nicer to each other; we used to be a more civil society. Now it's all about me getting my way and you getting out of my way. We keep getting fatter, louder, and less considerate. Fewer than 10% of us went to a classical music concert last year. Baseball used to be the national pastime; now it's football with its mind-numbing brutality. How is any of this different from Rome in its decline? Just substitute the New Jersey Meadowlands for the Roman Colosseum.

As for the second point: I absolutely believe that self-interest is the prime motivator. Look at Wall Street, look in the halls of Congress, turn on the TV. Yes, of course there are good people doing good things for good reasons, but that's the exception, not the rule. How else do you explain the fact that there's a higher percentage of poor people in this country than there was in 1964 when the "War on Poverty" was launched? As a nation, we pay lip-service to doing good; what we truly serve is the accumulation of wealth.

Finally, yes, I certainly question whether things will happen, at least good things. I voted for Obama and would do it again, but did I believe his promises? Hell no. Even if he wanted to do all the things he said he did, I knew he couldn't.

Maybe the best way to describe me is that I am a global cynic and a local realist. That is to say I think I can do some good things locally -- very locally, as in my home and within my small circle of acquaintances. But globally, I think we're screwed. And not just us in America, but us as in all of us. We're killing the planet and not enough of us care; we're killing each other and not enough of us care; we're killing our culture and damn few of us even notice.

A cynic? Absolutely!
(Title quote and image of George Bernard Shaw)

Travel problem - no, not volcano based

This is actually an image of the Pu‘u ‘O‘o–Kupaianaha Eruption, Hawaii, 1983

On a day when the planet has seen fit to shut down thousands upon thousands of flights once again, here's a rant on a much smaller travel issue. Oh how self-important I can think I am.

Scene: Stratford CT Metro North railroad station

Dramatis personæ: 40 people, singles and groups

Rain is spitting fitfully, the temperature is struggling to break 50 and Ransom and I are waiting for the 10:10 to Grand Central. 10:15 still waiting. 10:22 a train finally approaches -- on the wrong track, the one heading back to New Haven! The public address system remains stubbornly silent. After a minute the engineer lowers his window to shout that his train is the Yankee Stadium special. People start to run to the stairs -- in Stratford the tracks sit on a small hill; the street is down a flight of stairs; to get to the other platform you have to go down the stairs, walk to the other side and then climb up again. The Yankee train waits a couple of minutes. Again, no announcement has been made, except to the five of us close enough to the engineer. People waiting toward the rear of the platform have no way of knowing what's going on. I tell as many people as I can and more and more people head toward the stairs.

And then the train leaves! The driver has a clear view of a bunch of people, a dozen at least, climbing the stairs to board the train. And he pulls out of the station! What the fuck?!

Ransom and I were not affected -- that was not our train -- except that we're now over 20 minutes late. Still, this is no way to run a railroad. Third world countries do a better job.

This is no way to run a country!

Go Team, Go

I am not a sports fan, not by a long shot. On February 7th I kept my streak alive: for the 44th year in a row I did not watch the Super Bowl. Last month I didn't watch any March Madness; I don't even watch Notre Dame football anymore (why would I, you ask). The Olympics come and go with hardly a passing nod from me. I like baseball, but rarely go to games.

Last night I watched Hoosiers, the great basketball movie starring Gene Hackman, Barbara Hershey and Dennis Hopper. A.O. Scott, film critic for the New York Times, calls it "formulaic and full of cliches," but he also says it is a film of "extraordinary power" while admitting that he "can't say what it is that makes this movie great." I second every word of that -- and would add one other complaint: it has the worst, most generic, soundtrack of any movie I've ever seen.

But I loved watching it. LOVED watching it. I knew where it was going every step of the way and yet I tensed up at each moment director David Anspaugh wanted me to and cheered when things went well.

Like Scott, I wondered why. Maybe it's partly due to my high school winning the Far East Invitational Basketball Tournament in 1962 and my clear memories of that season and those games. The intensity in a basketball arena packed with screaming fans is certainly something to remember. Maybe it's my memory of the 1966 football season at Notre Dame when we won the national title.

There are other sports memories that I carry with me -- Doug Flutie's Hail Mary pass against Miami, the sixth game of the 86 World Series, the first time Ara Parsegian walked into the dining hall in which I ate as a freshman -- but, as I said, I'm not a sports fan; note that all those memories are years old.

I think Hoosiers works on me because it reminds me that there is something noble in doing the very best you can, even in a game. It reminds me of a time when sports were more fun and less calculated. Of a time when athletes were admired and respected but not considered gods. It reminds me that David can fell Goliath -- from all accounts Butler almost pulled off a Hoosier miracle last month.

Maybe I need to temper my cynical opinion of the average American sports fan: loud, fat, and obnoxious. Maybe.

My mentor

There have been many men I have learned from in my life. First, of course, my Dad. He taught me my core values and will always remain my primary teacher. Then there was Ricky who taught me that friendship is extraordinarily important, even though we were both elementary school kids at the time. Later there was Don who taught me about social behavior and honesty and then, later, was my first gay role model. There was Ron, who eased me through the process of coming out and Sandy, my first boyfriend, who modeled creative behavior, freeing me a bit from the straight-laced role I had assumed. He also took me to my first Verdi Requiem, opening the door to the fascinating richness of choral music and opera.

And there was Stephen (pronounced Stefen). Dr. Stephen Lenton was a professor at Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU) and led the section of Education of Self that was my introduction to the Awareness Series. It was a course unlike any I had ever taken, or ever heard of. We met in an art studio; the first ones to arrive had to clear a large open space by pushing all the easels and paraphernalia to the side . We would then lie down on the floor, close our eyes and try to shut out the world, opening ourselves to whatever was going to happen next.

And what happened was fascinating stuff. Stephen would lead us through activities, in groups both small and large, that were meant to make us contemplate who we were, how we felt and thought, how we expressed those thoughts and emotions and, more importantly, to "experience" all that. It was in fact experiential learning. "Getting in touch with our feelings" didn't then sound as trite it does today; it was new and exciting and scary and challenging -- especially, I think, for the men in the room.

There was a jargon that went along with the learning. I started prefacing half my sentences with "I'm aware…" (I'm aware that I'm hungry). I got past that and learned the the real truths had less to do with language -- though Stephen always maintained language was key -- and had more to do with owning my feelings and being responsible for what I say and do. We worked on power and trust and touch and silence and body language -- using an array of tools to change and grow.

Change and grow I did. Never more so than in a weekend workshop "On Being A Man," which dealt with  a variety of male issues, including men's often typical aversion to closeness and physical contact with other men. It was powerful stuff.

I think of those times, and of Stephen, fairly often. To quote a line from The Big Chill: "I was at my best when I was with you people." I think about Stephen when I say honestly what I am thinking, rather than hem and haw and beat around the bush. I think of him when I express what I want because he taught me that expecting to get it without asking for it is silly. I think of him when I use "I" instead of "you" ("when I walk into a room of strangers I feel" . . . instead of "you know how you feel when you walk into a room…") And in more important ways, I think of Stephen when I express my anger without attacking the person I'm talking to; or when I listen, really listen, rather than rehearse what I want to say next; or when I ask someone "how are you," and give them a chance to really tell me; or when I realize that "being right" is usually not as important as I think it is.

I'm not always good at this stuff, but if I am ever good at it, it is largely due to this wonderful man who became my mentor in the 1970s. I miss you Stephen.

(from Lesbian and Gay Richmond by Beth Marschak and Alex North, Arcadia Publishing, 2008).

98 years of love

Grandmother and granddaughter in 2009

Stella Moleske was 98 when she died this morning; with her was her loving granddaughter Suzanne and Suzanne's husband, her equally devoted grandson Michael. She was Babci -- "grandma" in Polish -- to them, and to all of us who knew her. This is not her obituary; I am not competent to write that.

Instead this is a tribute to the amazing and heart-warming affection Suzanne and Mike showed this woman. I stand in awe at the devotion they exhibited during all of the 16 years I have known them, and, undoubtedly, long before that. When I first met Babci she was still living in her own home, and still working part time at Yale -- and she was over 80 years old! Suzanne regularly took her out, had lunch with her, went shopping with her -- she was totally involved in her life. When Stella could no longer handle the house by herself, Suzanne and Mike made room for her in their home and looked after her for several years.

Eventually Babci needed more care than they could provide and so she moved into Mary Wade Home and then Hamden Health Care Center. Suzanne visited every day, most of the time with Mike as well. She timed her visits so she could be there at dinner time to make sure Babci was getting enough to eat and to continue a years-long tradition of family meals together. I joined them on a few of those visits; it was always uplifting to see the love flowing back and forth in that room.

Babci has always been a part of Suzanne's life. It was really she who raised Suzanne and it has always been she who looked out for her. As the tables turned Suzanne graciously changed roles; there's never been a time when one of them wasn't looking out for the other.

I am a cynic; I am a pessimist; but here's yet another argument against my nature. Thank you Suzanne, and Michael, for showing me love at work.

Stella Moleske 1911-2010

My love/hate relationship with the military

Pacific arch at National World War II Memorial, Washington, DC

I just watched the first four episodes of The Pacific on HBO; my first reaction is that it's not quite as compelling as the excellent Band of Brothers, but it has me hooked nonetheless. My Dad spent most of his working life in the Army, rising to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. I was an Army brat, an officer's kid. Growing up I spent 5 years living on Army bases in Japan; the rest was spent mostly in Richmond (VA), Atlanta and Chicago, living like a civilian, though never in one place for more than three years. Growing up this way has some real benefits -- and a down side too. I crossed the country and the ocean four times, I learned to get along with all sorts of people who came from all sorts of places and I experienced life as always-changing, always-new. On the other hand, I never felt like I truly belonged anywhere, I had no roots. On balance though, it was good -- it was the only life I knew.

Then came the Vietnam War. I was staunchly opposed to the war, just as my Dad strongly supported it. We fought over it until we realized it was a subject best avoided.

Then came the draft. I lost my student deferment when I dropped out after Kent State. The government came calling soon after. There was no way I was going to go into the Army. I would go to Canada or go to jail before I would allow myself to be drafted, but first I would do all I could to stay out.

I told the draft board I was gay. That was not quite as true as I pretended, but "checking the box" was enough to get me an appointment with an Army shrink. I remember well the morning I headed to that appointment. Dad and I had coffee. I had been sufficiently vague with him so that I didn't have to tell him my strategy. I said something opaque like "I'll make them see I'd be a bad soldier." Lord knows what he thought. As he left he asked me what I would do if I failed, if they drafted me anyway. I said "I won't go." He told me that would break his heart; I said "I know."

It didn't come to that. The shrink believed I was gay and I was free to go. I'm sure Dad was heart-broken nonetheless, but at least I wasn't leaving the country or going to jail. (For the record, I probably would have gone to jail. Canada was just too difficult and meant -- we thought at the time -- never coming home. Jail meant just making one decision and then everything else would be decided for me. It was the easier way out.)

After the US fled Vietnam the issue of the Army and the draft receded. As I grew older Dad and I got along better and better. Coming out to him -- a story for another day -- was a bump in the road, but we weathered that too. I didn't think much about the military.

Until June of 1994, as the country and the world celebrated the 50th anniversary of D-Day. I watched a lot of TV and I kept getting choked up, watching those old men -- my Dad's fellow soldiers -- being honored for what they did back in the 40s. I was proud of what they had done and shamed for the disregard with which I held the military. I read Tom Brokaw's "The Greatest Generation" and came to a full understanding of the sacrifices my Dad, and countless like him, made for me. I applauded wildly when the Yale Band recreated a Glenn Miller concert and celebrated the veterans in attendance.

I said thank you to my Dad.

So I watch another miniseries about World War II through conflicted eyes. I love my country. I love my Dad. I am proud of both. Yet I hate war in general and the wars in Vietnam and Iraq in particular. I know the government lies to us to pursue goals I don't approve of. I know that lots of young men join the Army because their future holds no other real option. I know that violence is not the answer.

As I said, it's a real love/hate thing I've got going.

Cereal, Catholics and Carnegie

Anyone know this Catholic church?

I'm home today, fighting a sore throat, trying to keep it from turning into something else. A useless attempt I know -- it'll be what it's going to be -- but the rest makes me feel better at least. I was feeling generally lousy while mixing cereal and a banana, waiting for the water to boil for tea, when it struck me how easy it is for me to complain about the mildest of inconveniences. Here I am in a beautiful house in a safe neighborhood, surrounded by acres and acres of trees. I have plenty of food, I have clean running water that I rarely give a thought to and I know that, if this were to turn into something more than just a cold I have a world-class health center I can turn to.

And yet I bitch and curse when things don't go my way. Do you know how little of the world's population has all those things I mentioned above -- or even some of them? Time to buck up Walter and be grateful.

On a completely different note I watched a BBC World News videos of Christopher Hitchins talking about the Catholic church. As you may know he is a hard-hitting atheist and certainly no friend of any Christian church -- but he's also a clear-thinking, intelligent man who doesn't waste respect on sacred cows. He makes his points far better than I can, so I encourage you to watch this short piece.

I also watched Stephen Fry's comments from the same debate. He starts by saying, "I genuinely believe that the Catholic church is not, to put it at its mildest, a force for good in the world..." The most important point he makes though follows a bit later: "let's not call it child abuse -- it was child rape -- the kind of child rape that went on systematically for so long..." You can view the video to follow the argument, but I am struck by his use of the word rape. It was rape. It is rape. Let's face that fact. "Child abuse" can convey horrendous images of course, but it also comes in degrees, some of which are not even physical. The seduction of young boys by priests was rape, clear and simple. Those priest are rapists.

Finally today, to lighten the tone a bit: for those of you waiting breathlessly for the promised update: Carnegie Hall is dead to me, at least in terms of being a subscriber. I spoke by telephone with their box office manager and he was mainly interested in arguing with me and making excuses. Count me as just one more subscriber lost by arrogance.


(Answer: the church is in Mondsee, Austria; it was used for  the wedding scene in the film version of The Sound of Music).

Reason to hope?

Notre Dame, October 2009

At the risk of my reputation, this is another post about good things. Maybe I'm not the curmudgeon I claim to be. (Damn!)

I have very fond memories of my time at Notre Dame. It is a checkered history, and an abbreviated one: Sep 1966 - Dec 1967 and Sep 1969 - May 1970. I didn't  finish my degree there and left after Kent State. I've returned a few times, mostly for football games, even though I am hardly an avid fan, either of football or, in many ways, of Notre Dame.

What I most liked and most fondly remember about ND are the people I met there. Brian McNamara, Chris Loving, Steve O'Brien and John Burrows during freshman year and then Dave Denmark, Phil Balest, Chris Johnson and Tom McDonald the second time. I even met Joe Theismann (Thees-man) in 1967, back before the sports writers changed the pronunciation of his name to more closely rhyme with Heisman, as in trophy.

Of those guys the one I am closest to today is Tom, a lovely man who kept alive the flame of liberal concern for the plight of the downtrodden. At one time he worked for the Catholic Worker on Manhattan's lower east side. He married Liz years ago and has two great children, Dan and Claire.

I just spent the weekend with Dan. He flew to New York and we took in Hamlet at the Metropolitan Opera and Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson at the Public. We visited Riverside Church and John the Divine and paid homage to New Haven pizza at Pepe's. We walked in the CT woods with the dogs and I introduced him to Bambi versus Godzilla and Anna Russell. Mostly though we talked, nearly non-stop, about matters important and not so. And had a great time. Call me a sentimental sap, but I think it is just so cool that the adult son of a decades-long friend is now my friend too. It speaks, at least partially, to the quality of people Notre Dame attracts. I've known since the 60s that Tom is one of those people; now I know that Dan is as well. Perhaps it's heredity, I don't know.

I'm not an optimist, but if there are more young people out there like Dan, maybe there's room for hope.